Tale of the Brighthorn
by semiiramiis
Summary: Called by the spirits, Damaris walks the path of the shaman, answering the call to serve the Warchief.


"Tag! You're it!"

Damaris turned her head slightly, her attention attracted by the vicious glee in the declaration. She had her suspicions, and they were correct… The "it" stood in the midst of the yard, huge, ambling and very annoyed…Tarik. If he could catch them, he'd hurt them, but they were safe. Tarik couldn't catch anything, and they knew it.

"I don't want to play this." He grumbled, his voice already falling towards a bass register, and he was only ten. Of course, he was already close to an adult bull's height and weight as well. "I said that before."

"Slowpoke! Come on, Tarik!"

"No." He disagreed, standing solidly immobile, a hulking black mountain in the midst of the other adolescent calves. "I do _not _want to play this."

"Then go play house with Damaris." Kerwin, the ringleader of the young bulls, sneered, and Damaris stared at him. He didn't matter. None of them did, but Tarik. She couldn't say exactly _why_, but that was a truth as old as she was. They seemed…not there. Less real than he was. She saw it, but Tarik didn't. Tarik didn't see a lot, but he did see when his contemporaries were teasing him. He growled, throwing his head in annoyance, a display impressive enough to cause Kerwin to step backwards. At ten seasons, Tarik Ragetotem stood as tall as an average bull, and weighed the same. His horn span was already hinting at a lethality unmatched by any male in the camp, and he had begun to gain the heavily muscled hump of a mature bull. His physical precocity was not matched by his mental development, in that aspect, he was merely ten, and a rather immature ten.

Damaris turned from the adolescents, her attention fixated on the mountains to the east. She moved as far in that direction as she could, under the watchful eyes of the camp guards. Also ten seasons, Damaris Skychaser was everything that Tarik was not. Physically small, fragile, she stood as tall as an eight season heifer, her own horns mere nubs in the black swirl of her poll. She also could not catch the youngsters that Tarik played with, but that deficiency came from a poor constitution, short legs, and a simple lack of caring. She didn't feel like playing. She didn't remember a time when she had. Damaris Skychaser had been born old. She had also been born dead.

The wind picked up, battering the hip high grass into a melodic rustle, coming from the north. Damaris stood; physically burdened with the bag of a new calf slung across her shoulders and spiritually burdened by knowledge she couldn't put words to.

"Dama." Tarik sighed, taking a seat on the rock outcropping beside her. "How goes it?"

"It goes." She stated, taking a peek in the bag. The one within was also alive, also real…. Her sister, born new this season, asleep, warm and comforted in the woolly lining of the bag. Damaris placed her hand on the baby's warm, white belly, soothingly, and the calf made slight sucking noises but did not wake.

"One of these days, I'll show them." He boasted angrily, and Damaris ignored him. He wouldn't. She didn't know why, but she knew enough. They were still vastly unimportant, the young bulls full of adolescent bravado, the young heifers just coming old enough to realize there was a distinction. "I mean it." He continued, and she glanced up at him.

"Certainly." She agreed, and his glare grew to include her.

"Don't _you _start." He rumbled, his brows lowering, shadowing his dark face in stormy anger. "I know." He said before she finished drawing breath to answer, and holding up his hand. "They are _un_important. Easy for you to say."

No, not easy for her to say. She pulled nervously at the edge of her tunic and swished her tail. It was damned difficult. They were her camp, her clan, her people, and they did not fit in her life. And if she didn't fit here, where she'd been born and raised, did she fit anywhere? Her people were only now stepping back from the brink of extinction, these should be more important than that. "You will go away." She stated. "You will learn to be a warrior." Few disputed that. The bigger he got, the more obvious that became. He would have to leave here to fulfill what he was meant to be. "And you will be great." It was a truth, unembellished by any false desire to make him feel better. He would be. And she would be there to see it happen. More truths. This time of golden afternoons and brazen blue skies was fleeting.

The calf shifted in her bag, and her sucking noises grew louder, interspersed with the occasional mewing bawl. Damaris pulled her from the bag, lifting her not inconsiderable weight to her shoulder. While Damaris had been born frail, this one was strong, healthy. "Hush, little one." She soothed, but knew it was an impossible task. Amadis was hungry and feeding was the only thing that Damaris should not do for her. Let Tarik stew in his own rejection, her words meant little to him, _yet_.

She turned from her study of the east, shadowed by the mountain range, bearing Amadis into the camp and to their mother. Elidi Skychaser toiled beside the oven, baking bread, her brown nose marked by streaks of flour. Her eldest living child had stripes on her nose as well, but Damaris's were permanent, pale streaks against the black of her face. "She's hungry."

"Yes. It's about that time. I'll feed her, you knead."

Damaris wrinkled her nose, but handed over the calf and complied. She could cook, and cook quite well, but. She watched her mother out of the corner of her eye… Elidi was short, rounded, and pleasant when not crossed. Unfortunately, Damaris managed to cross her often, and had seen the underside to that outward placidity. Elidi could be as vicious as any of the juvenile males, and was not afraid to unleash it on her eldest daughter.

"Narymi has a new dress. Have you seen it?"

Yes, Damaris had. Narymi had been careful to make certain that Tarik had seen it, so Damaris also had. "It's very pretty." She agreed slowly, folding the bread over. While Tarik's contemporaries ran physical circles around him, hers merely ignored her.

"Your father has some nice linen just come in. He'd be happy to make you one like it." There was a subtle recrimination in the sentence, and Damaris laid her ears back. As the eldest child of the camp's tailor, _she_, and not Narymi, should be the finest dressed young one. And it was not her father's fault that she wasn't. He'd given up trying to dress her a long time ago. Elidi was not as quick to admit defeat.

"What difference does it make?" Damaris asked, splitting the dough into thirds and setting it to rise. The question was guaranteed to gain her a glare, and indeed, it did. But the glare didn't change the immoveable truth. None of this mattered.

"Dama. If you tried…." If she tried, she could try to compete with Narymi. If she tried really hard, she could run a close second to that one in desirability. Nothing would change the fact that Narymi Skychaser had been born a lovely fawn color, tall, willowy, with eyes as green as leaves, while Damaris Skychaser was spotted, a color as common as dirt, the only striking feature about her the zhevra stripes on her nose. And those seemed to annoy Elidi more than anything concrete about her daughter. "Tarik is not the one you want to end up with."

Of course not. Tarik was destined for the front. Everything about him screamed combat. He was incompetent in every aspect that Elidi found important… he was too clumsy to be an artisan. He was too short tempered to be a lifemate, although he curbed that tendency admirably around the much smaller Damaris, or perhaps she just didn't annoy him as much as others did. Tarik would be exemplary at the position he was supposed to hold in Damaris's life… and she would be exemplary at the position she was destined to hold in his.

"What is to the east?" The question slipped out, and Damaris regretted it. Elidi did not like questions. And obviously, that was one of those questions that Elidi did not like…she wrinkled her nose at Damaris while she stroked Amadis. There would be no answer….

"The Barrens." An answer, but not from Elidi. Damaris's sire, the source of her mottled coloring and even temper, stood within the tent flap, a garment slung over his humped shoulder. "It's not a crime for her to know _that, _Elidi."

"She asks too many questions, Ullen."

His brows lowered, and he studied Damaris for a long moment. "She's young, Elidi." He sighed, rubbing his daughter's thick mane of black hair with a roughly affectionate hand. "Maybe they're right…"

"They are _not _right!" Elidi hissed, and he silenced immediately. "She will be a baker, a tailor….they are _wrong_."

"Elidi." He breathed after a long moment. "She is. You know she is. The best we can do is to send her to Mulgore, before she's too old. We can send her with Tarik before the cold comes…."

Damaris might be the family member with red eyes, but Elidi's stare smoldered nonetheless. "They will not send my daughter to the front. She will not die for the Horde, or any other foolishness."

_Die for the Horde. _The phrase turned the late summer day cold for Damaris, and raised the thin edge of panic in her soul. _Die for the Horde. _ If it wouldn't have caused her mother to become more spiteful, angrier, Damaris would have gripped her ears to shut it out, although it did not come from any source that could be blocked by merely folding her ears closed. _Have you come to serve the Horde? _A voice, deep, pleasant, male… the first time that the voices in her soul kicked up something that Damaris would recognize if she heard it again.

"What have you there?" Elidi demanded, gesturing at the garment, and her spouse grinned. "If I make Narymi a gown, would I not make my own Dama one as nice?" He asked, holding the garment up by its shoulders. It was easily as nice, edging towards better, and Damaris took it from him slowly, her fingers shaking. It was red and black, the Horde's colors… although undoubtedly her father had chosen the colors for her dark spots and crimson eyes.

_You will carry it a long time, Brighthorn, this work of your sire's. And you will wear it, proudly. _

"It's very nice, Papi." She managed to keep her voice smooth, and happy. "I love it."

"Nothing but the best for my Dama." He grinned. Ullen Skychaser was everything his lifemate was not, and their eldest offspring gravitated to him when she needed support, although that hurt. Hurt because he, also, felt transitory. And he was the only one whose impermanence whispered sadness in her soul. She wanted to hold onto him, forever. "Try it on, Dama."

_It won't fit, yet. It's not meant to, Brighthorn. _

She grinned against the voices in her soul, the voices that called her Brighthorn, the Thrice Dying, locking her teeth together. "It looks a little big." She noted aloud, squashing the voice.

Ullen studied it as she held it up, his brows lowering. Her sire wasn't just a tailor, he was an artisan, and mistakes were beneath him. But she was correct; the gown was large, too long, and too wide in the chest and hips. "Ullen." His lifemate sounded…appalled, and his own face flashed consternation.

"Oh, my." He breathed in disbelief. "I am…sorry, Dama. I don't…."

"It's just fine, Papi." She threw herself at him, and as always, he didn't fail to buttress himself against her weight and took her into his arms. "I'll grow into it."

"Of course you will, darling. Of course you will."

The stranger stared. He stared not at the young heifer who tried her best to gather his attention, but at the pair beyond her. The young black bull was immense, massive, already ominous, and obviously still growing. Put a blade in his hand and teach him to use it…. Nothing would stand against him. He was impressive, and worth the stranger's time and effort. He alone would have made this trip worthwhile…but he wasn't alone. Beside him was the true prize, and the stranger narrowed his eyes. It was a heifer, probably the same age, or within a season, of the golden one that tried for his eyes. Small. Physically frail, like so many of her calling were. The spirits came to those whose souls were only lightly tied to their bodies, so said the Mother.

"That's Damaris." The golden one stated immediately when his eyes narrowed. _Damaris_. The name her family, her circle, and her closest would know her by. They would be few; so many more would know her by a title instead. And she didn't have that title yet. "She's a little odd. The daughter of our tailor…and our baker."

Tailor. Baker. The gifts of the spirits fell where they would. And, in this village, they had fallen thick on one year's batch of calves.

"…Her sire made this for me…" she spun in a twirl, and the stranger yanked his eyes away from the other young heifer to study the gown in question. It was a fine piece of work, designed to show off the golden one as a prize worth pushing for.

"Very nice. You look good in it." She did. And she would probably regret that.

"_Briiiiiiiiighthorn." _The voice, teasing and insistent, shifted Damaris out of sleep. It was false dawn; true dawn would not come to the mountains for another hour. With the voice came a compunction that she could not shake. She was thirsty. Thirsty to the depths of her soul. A thirst that couldn't be slaked by the stale, warm water resting in the tent. Only the fast flowing, frigid waters of the creek would do.

She dressed for the chill morning, not the warm afternoon to come… a thick woolen gown, over her linen tunic and trousers and, without thought, slung the calf bag, Amadis deeply asleep within it, across her shoulders and set out.

A voice woke Tarik out of a restless half sleep, and he frowned, trying to place it. "Nyah, nyah…sleep baby one, under the sky, under the moon…" It was a song, but the one who passed him by was not singing it, more muttering it under her breath. It was Damaris, and he shifted in his bedroll to watch her pass by. He slept under the fly of the tent, outside, butted up against the tent's warm side. The fresh air helped him sleep… normally. "Dama." He called, hopping out of the bedroll with the ease of youth, ignoring the frigid blast of air. He already had a lot of his winter coat, and was dressed anyway. "Dama." He repeated in confusion when he reached her. She looked…not entirely awake… too dully unaware to risk the path she was headed for…and she carried the calf.

"I'm thirsty." She stated after a pause that verged on too long. "It was hot in the tent. And I'm thirsty."

"I have water." He offered slowly. All the camp would, and it was free for the asking. Her parents should have water.

She blinked, her eyes flicking towards him for a second, but there was no real comprehension in them. "It's the wrong water." She stated as if that settled everything and stepped into a walk again.

"Wrong water?" He demanded, catching up with her easily. "Dama. Water is water." He placed a hand on her shoulder to slow her, but she slid from his grasp easily. He was too afraid to actually try to _hold _onto her. Too many years of Tarik shouldn't play with Dama, he'd hurt her, he's so big, so clumsy, she's so little, so fragile, he'll _hurt _her had been engraved into his soul. He couldn't hurt her. She was the only one around he found acceptance with. Torn, he stared between her and the head of the path. She could hurt herself, the calf if he let her go. If he stopped her, _he _could hurt her. "Dama…_please _stop… I have water." She was beginning to frighten him, and he looked around vainly for help. That caused him another visual stutter… there should be a watch…guards, and there were none…

None… no one else…. "Dama!" He roared, and the volume startled her out of her stupor, she spun on him, her eyes widening, focused beyond him. Her methodical steps opened into a full out run, _away _from him, _away _from the camp, and straight for the trailhead.

He turned in the direction she had looked in, and froze, his mind scrambling to accept what he saw. Dead. They were dead… the guards... dead. There were bulls in the camp that didn't belong, great black bulls like he would become in a few years, with bloodied weapons. "Don't run, boy!" an unfamiliar voice bellowed.

"Get the heifer…she can't make it too far!" A higher pitched voice yelled, and Tarik's decision was made for him. Go after the fleeing Damaris or stand… he couldn't stand against these, but Dama was still loose, still free, and he could possibly help her. He charged the trailhead, his mind closed to the reason he had not wanted her to attempt it earlier. Deep in the eastern shadows…the trail was icy in the morning. But it was a better option than the one unfolding in front of him. His mind would work out the fact that his people were dying…by the hands of their own…later. If there was a later.

He plunged down the trail on Dama's tail, ignoring the slippery way. She was just in front of him when she heard what he was to hear a moment later, others in front of her. She would have been fine had she not reconsidered her way on the path she had traversed daily since she was old enough to walk it without her dam's hand on hers. She cut sideways, trying to halt her forward momentum and bounced off of Tarik's immobile bulk. He managed to grab onto her, keep her steady, but he misjudged his own pivot, his hooves without purchase on the icy rock. He scrambled ineffectively, and fell into darkness.

He woke an indeterminate amount of time later, his head pounding and his mouth furry. He was jammed into a slit, and there was only darkness and sobbing. He tried shifting, but the sobbing escalated and the heavy warm weight that wasn't him started beating ineffectually on his chest. "No. No. No."

"Dama?" He breathed slowly, trying to regain some control, some comprehension. The air was thick with dirt, and it was difficult to breathe.

"Don't move! Please, don't move!" Yes, definitely Damaris. He had come down first; she was on top of him. Better than the alternative… "It hurts! Don't move."

He froze, trying to remember. "Dama… The calf?" The camp was beyond his help. A greater, more immediate concern was what he must be in the hole with, Damaris and the infant calf.

"I…think she's all right. She's alive. She landed uppermost."

"And you?" She was sitting on his chest, one leg passed under his armpit. There was dampness, and now that he was coherent, he smelled blood.

"It's bad. I've broken the leg that's under your shoulder."

He reached into the darkness, getting his bearings by finding her knee. The calf bag was still suspended from her shoulders, the calf resting in it, on Tarik's chest. He slid his hand within, and the calf shifted under his touch, her belly pulse strong. She was strong, and alive. "What time is it?" He asked slowly. How long had he been like this? How long had she been like this? How long before the calf started bawling?

"Late afternoon." Damaris's voice was despondent and resigned. By now, if there was someone to look for them, they should have started already. And they were in earshot of the camp, not far at all.

"And the calf isn't bawling?"

"She was. She cried herself back to sleep. You didn't wake up."

"Then they're dead." Amadis had a healthy set of lungs, even if Dama couldn't muster a yell loud enough, her baby sister could. There was just no one to hear her. "Dama, I have to try to climb out, it's going to get cold…" Actually, it already was, or it had never warmed. If Dama was truly as badly injured as she claimed, the last thing she needed was a chill.

"I can't move. I've tried."

"I'll shift off of your leg."

"It _hurts_." That was a tone she had never used with him, sharp and angry, the same venom that most used when he was being big, stupid, clumsy. "It hurts so bad, Tarik. I can't…."

"It's all right, Dama." He sighed. He was hungry, and his head hurt like he had his own private thunderstorm in it. She was probably right, just like she always was, even if he could extricate himself from her, he was in no condition to climb. "Just try to get some sleep." Why, he wasn't sure. But it sounded good.

The calf's resumed bawling woke Damaris, who blinked grit from her eyes to still see only darkness. Tarik was still, asleep, a wrong sleep that shouldn't be allowed, but it kept him from moving her shattered leg, and for that she was grateful.

"Poor baby." She mourned, soothing. Amadis was the only one not injured in the fall, and the one most likely to die first. It was not fair.

"_You have always known she was meant to be yours."_

Damn voices. What use were they anyway? They hadn't given enough of a warning to prevent this.

"_She's yours, so feed her. You've done it before." _

Tarik had been quick to accept that Amadis had cried herself out. She hadn't… Amadis was hers, now more than ever. "Shush, baby." She sighed, lifting the calf from her bag and onto her breast. "Don't wake Tarik up…"

His muted "Too late." corresponded exactly to the calf's first greedy swallow, and then the noise fell into sudden silence. "Dama?" he asked after a long, awkward pause.

"She has to eat."

"Well, yes." Another would have pursued the question farther, but Tarik did not. "Dama, are you…all right?"

She would love to lie, to tell him yes and lessen the entire thing. But she could not bring herself to do it. "No." The pain was dulling, and that was not good. Her perceptions were dulling, except for the spirit voices. And in spite of the temperature, she was entirely too hot. "I'm not. I'm…" _Dying. _ Here in this hole.

"Oooof!" The great Nokomis Ragetotem fell like a doll, and lay quite still on the ground. His attacker crowed in delight, leaping to land on his chest, but he caught her mid air and dangled her above him. She yelled in glee, her hooves waving ineffectually in the air.

"Down!" She demanded, and he chuckled, surging to his feet and planting her on the ground.

"Go, little one." He breathed, and Amadis dashed away to mingle back with the other young ones in constant motion through the camp. He watched her progress with the pride of a father, before she passed close enough to Tiraele for his attention to transfer to his lifemate. So beautiful, especially now that she ripened with her own calf...

She sat on a rock, Damaris seated on the ground next to her, their heads, one dun and one black, pressed close together. They spoke a language he would never understand, that of the ones touched by the spirits, and he was glad he did not understand it. It was a burden as much as it was a gift, and he preferred to make his way through life with the strength of his muscles and the edge of his blade. That he could teach to Tarik, and Tarik's all too normal problems he could understand and help with. Damaris, no. He loved her with all of his heart, just as he loved Tiraele, but he knew he'd never understand either of them. Tarik's problems... he pinned his ears back and let his eyes seek the young bull. That one had grown into the promise he'd shown earlier, ominously huge, shadow black, death walking the lands. He was trying to grow up as quickly as his body had, and that was a mistake. He might grow to be Damaris's lifemate. Might grow to be the sire of her calves at some point in the future, but he was not that now. Damaris seemed willing, relieved, to step back and allow Tiraele mother the calf. She was even willing to allow Tiraele mother her, as was fitting for her age. She was more distant with Nokomis, but he understood. He was not her father, nor was he her teacher. She had loved her sire desperately, and still mourned him. She did not mourn her mother's passing.

She was too young to be Tarik's lifemate, if that was even what she was destined to be. She was unwilling to mother her sister, leaving that to another. She loved Amadis, Noko was certain of it, she just loved her as a devoted sister. She now seemed determined to hold onto to what remained of her youth with both hands. Her companion pushed her to grow up, and Noko did not believe it was a wise push. Damaris stared at a much different adulthood than Tarik did, but the young bull just did not seem to grasp it. He pointed incessantly at Noko and Tiraele, their adult mirrors, as proof that it could, _would_, work. But Noko was accomplished at reading the doubts of a gifted one, and every time Tarik claimed that, Damaris's eyes went in whatever direction Orgrimmar was from her position. Her path was another way, and the path of a shaman could be dark and frightening. To be one's companion often demanded a distance and silence, an acceptance, that Noko was not certain the younger bull possessed. It might just be best to take Tarik away, to show him that there were other young cows out there... Fine, lovely cows. As the thought crossed his mind, his lifemate looked up from her student and nodded sharply.

"Noko means to take Tarik away, Dama." Tiraele stated it suddenly, and Dama nodded slowly. "Unless, of course, you want what he considers done already."

Damaris shook her head, studying the patterns that the stones, the grass, and the dust made. No. She did not want what he considered done already. She loved him, but not in that way. He must let go and allow her to go where she was meant to. She stood, staring resolutely northward, into the freshening breeze. "Not much longer." She stated, and Tiraele only nodded. Not much longer, and Damaris would be ready for her dream walk. And after that, Damaris would need to leave here. She would be a shaman. And ready to be what she was destined to be. "I don't want him close by when I do." She ended slowly, and Tiraele nodded again. The dream walk was harsh for all, even though Tiraele had done it herself, she was not looking forward to watching her student attempt it. It was disturbing. It was dangerous in the best of circumstances, and Damaris would not attempt it in the best of circumstances. Her body was weak, while her soul was strong. It was a bad combination. She'd left her body before, she'd died before, had the bonds which held her soul into her body shattered before. Such things never repaired fully. It was both a gift, and a curse.

"Of course not." Tiraele agreed. She had not been with Noko when she had been that young, they'd met after she'd become a true shaman. But she understood that she would not want to burden him with that. "There is a chance, young one, that the walk will give him distance that your words cannot."

"I know." A metallic beetle crossed the spot that Damaris stared at so intently and she picked it up, studying it for a long moment before she released it again, well away from the emptiness before her. "I will not be the same person."

"True enough. And when he spills blood for the shu'halo, for the Horde, he will not be the same." Times were harsh, life was harsh. Their young ones faced a dark and uncertain future. These two were not destined to live their lives out in the protected valleys of Mulgore, but were called forth to stand elsewhere, to face that which threatened the people on its own grounds. Such was the way things were. Perhaps these young ones belonged to the generation who would bring the people peace... she rested her hand on her belly, then shook her head sharply. That was too sharp a burden to place on any. Let them stand as Shu'halo. Let them be strong and fine. Let her contributions, Noko's, take the fight forward.

"My hunt? My hunt?" Tarik echoed, his dark eyes glittering. That hunt was all that stood between him and adulthood in the eyes of the tribes. Most young Shu'halo counted their days of childhood ended when they went out to hunt their first kodo. Noko doubted if Damaris would ever, she was too small and weak to. Her gifts to her people went in a different way, but her companion was another thing altogether. His were with his size, his strength. He would run across the plains, he would bring meat to the little ones when they were hungry. "And Dama?" He asked, and Noko chuckled.

"Dama? She may never complete the hunt. It does not matter." The young cow had glanced in their direction when she heard Tarik call her name the first time, and gave a slight shrug when she heard Noko's response. She had shown no interest in any training for the hunt. If she had, then he would not discount her so quickly. Many who were small, who were lamed, completed their hunts with grace and strength, but they pushed for it. Damaris Skychaser had ignored all gentle queries to see if she wished to be one. She would gain her adulthood in the world of the spirits, not on the plains of Kalimdor.

"But if she doesn't..." Tarik frowned, and Noko understood _exactly_ where his mind was going. Only adults could lifebond. If Damaris never became an adult, in the eyes of the tribes, then she could not bond with him. A union between them would never be quite accepted, and Tarik was not the sort who could swallow that. He thrived on respect, and his mate would need to be respectable. Unfortunately, Noko wasn't certain that Damaris would ever be that kind of respectable. In fact, he doubted she would be. She would be great. Her name would be called in stories and songs, but she would not be the respectable that Tarik would seek. Damaris would be great. Tarik would be great. And that fact would keep them separate.

"Tarik. Dama will prove her worthiness in other ways. She will be an adult, even if she does not hunt."

The young bull nodded, pacified, and Noko sighed. No one had ever said that this was supposed to be easy. A blur of blood chestnut and white zoomed by, little legs churning, screeching at the top of her lungs, and Noko grinned, giving chase. The small one made sense... She only wanted to play, eat, and be loved. Life was simple with her

"Walk with me, Damaris."

Damaris cocked an ear, contemplated the tone in Tiraele's voice. So it was time. With Tarik and Nokomis safely gone, they would put it off no longer. "I am ready." She breathed, standing to her full height. They walked out onto the plains of the Barrens together, equally silent, until Damaris found words.

"Once this happens..."

"You can no longer stay." Tiraele completed the phrase. "The call to Orgrimmar, if that is indeed where you are called to, will be too strong. And the Grimtotem crone will feel you once again, and she will bring retribution against those who have hidden you for these years."

Damaris felt her brow furrow under her horns, her gaze moving to the small encampment. They did not deserve to be punished for doing what was right. They had sheltered their own. Such was the way it was supposed to be. "I don't want that." She breathed. "You. Nokomis. Your unborn. Amadis."

"You will not stay anyway, Damaris. Worrying about what would be if you did is pointless. You will go. Amadis will stay. Tarik..." Tiraele shrugged, his way was not led by the spirits, and she didn't know where the winds would take him.

Damaris nodded, following her mentor through the pale, dead grass and up the faint path which led to the top of the abutment. "How far do we go?" Tiraele finally asked, and Damaris shook her head.

"Here is fine." She muttered, and Tiraele frowned. Part of the quest was the path a seeker chose, but Damaris felt pulled nowhere, but as always, towards Orgrimmar. And was not the path of her dream walk. That was the pull of her life.

"Here? You're certain?"

No, Damaris wasn't certain. She rarely was. She just didn't feel like anywhere was a better choice than here. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe she wasn't supposed to be a shaman. That was a terrible thought. If she wasn't, then she had done nothing to make certain she had a reason to be. She could not hunt. She had felt no other calling. Certainly she had all of the skills of a well rounded young cow, she could cook. She could craft a great many items with an artisan's skill, but that would not make her any more than her parents had been... And they had died without a hope. "My heart tells me it does not matter where I go to meet the spirits."

After so many grand tales of the journey just to find the right place, that sounded so desperately anticlimactic. Tiraele had packed for just that journey, and Damaris told her that here, within view of the camp, was fine enough.

"Very...well then." Tiraele sat, began pulling out objects, which Damaris's heart also told her were unnecessary. "It's time to introduce you to the spirits then, Dama."

"_Unnecessary, Brighthorn. We have been with you since you first drew breath and slipped away from us. We were the ones who held you first. But let her do what she has trained her life to do. We will not cheat her of it." _

Damaris nodded, knowing Tiraele did not hear the voice. She sat, and watched. Part of her duty in studying under Tiraele was to learn how to teach the next generation of Shu'halo shaman, and this was a ritual she might need to know.

"_Exactly, young one. Learn what there is to learn. And come see us. We wait_."

Tiraele stared at the ritual, intently, double guessing and making certain it was correct. Damaris knew it was already, and she merely waited. "Good." Tiraele finally gave approval to her own efforts, handing the small skin to Damaris. "Remember. Do not panic. I am here with you, and I will bring you back if need be. It can be dark. It can be frightening. Face it with honor, with strength, Damaris. Damaris, sired by Ullen, carried by Elidi. Damaris, child of the Skychasers...child of the true people, the Shu'halo...drink...and meet your ancestors."

The draft was oddly sweet, Damaris had expected a more medicinal taste...and the world dropped out from beneath her. She was falling, no, she was flying, headed east over the expanse of the Barrens. There was a river, meandering through the desert, and a great city. Orgrimmar, capital of the western Horde. Home, for all that it was not Shu'halo built. Those who would cherish her waited for her there. Her place was not with her own people. Her place was not with Tarik...

There was a great portal, expansively huge over her head. She was standing before it, holding reins in her hand. There was the silent will of thousands standing behind her, and she glanced sideways towards the man who stood just beyond her field of view. An orc, old, grizzled, his stance and eyes burning with war and pride. "For many of you..." Those eyes, still smoldering with blood lust, fell on Damaris. "This is not your world. You have chosen to come here, drawn by your warchief's will. This is the land we will meet the Legion on. I applaud your bravery... _For the Warchief_!"

Damaris heard, felt, her own voice take up the cry. For the Warchief. For the Glory of the Horde. For Draenor. For Azeroth. For everything she believed in. For everything she stood for. She followed the war worn yet unbowed orc up the multitude of steps and stepped through the portal...

Into cold. Driving snow and ice that her hooves lacked purchase on. The screams of panic, of death. Betrayal. The hollow booming of great dragon's wings over her head. A loss that gripped her soul and heart. Flames and sorrow.

"_Northrend brings sorrow, yes_."

The voice was solid, tangible in the flurry of images and impressions. She grasped that reality, felt the spirit close by.

"_Sorrow to those you will grow to respect unto love, Brighthorn. Your heart and soul will help see them through that sorrow. The true test of a friend is one who stands beside one who mourns, and spills their own tears beside the mourner. Be a shoulder. Be a bulwark. Be an ear. But Northrend brings you what your heart seeks, and you must stand there. And perhaps, you must fall t__here_."

There was a sudden image of a tauren bull, magnificently huge, his eyes glowering under the span of his horns. He was roan, blue, his coloring fading into the driving snow and turbulent clouds behind him, until only the faint blue glow of his eyes showed


End file.
